Drip Drip Drip

In a shocking injustice, my entry to the Flash Fiction contest sponsored by Wolfsword Press and the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame did not win nor was even among the finalists. So I am presenting it here for your enjoyment. The rules of the contest were to write a story that features a wolf (or a Wolfe) of 100 to 250 words (including the title). Unwelcomed Guest “Javelina Botellín? Officer Shoat, El Paso Police. Can we talk?” Leena opened the screen door flashing a broken smile over a whiskered chin. She wore a hokey, woolen pork pie hat, and held a spherical iron pot and a wooden spoon. “Merry Christmas, Officer. Try some chili.” The spoon was in Shoat’s mouth before she could refuse. “It’s from a barbacoa de cabeza I made for la Nochebuena.” Shoat could see the whole interior of the practical, one-room cinder block house: Small gas stove in the fireplace, antique butter churn filled with apples, Brad Pitt and Jason Statham on TV (muted). Eartha Kitt was singing “Santa Baby”. ...

On March 17th, I'm planning to attend a special event by the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame to honor the writer, Gene Wolfe . It's a pretty big deal--an especially satisfying deal for a lot of people, even if maybe not the greatest honor he's ever achieved. He's already been inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame , he's been acclaimed by writers you've heard of as the best living American writer, the best living writer in English, compared to Mozart, blah blah blah. All these laurels are insufficient to convince you of how good he is at what he does. Imagine a friend told you about this little-known author who wrote stories about elves and hobbit-things and she tried to convince you that his work somehow transcended and redefined the medium. Or imagine this person tried to entice you to read this author of short stories mostly set in India--some of them about a boy raised by wolves and tutored by a panther and a bear. Now suppose she told you that ...